The Rain-Hammered Roof
by Leaf Skeletons
Summary: Percy and food: the troubles and small joys that surround these two. A series of drabbles.
1. Chapter 1

I: Gabe

Angel's Hair Pasta:

Sally Jackson's favourite picture was of her in a soft checked shirt with an arm around her toddler of a son, whose smile was gap-toothed and mischievous; it was set against the backdrop of their cabin in Montauk and was foggy at the edges. She kept in a gilded frame and displayed it proudly on the wall. Percy could see that his mother adored the photograph, so he did as well, taking care to polish it whenever he thought it too dusty.

Now Gabe was glaring at the picture as his stepson slumbered in the depth of the night, and Sally was cowering against the wall, a constellation of bruises—yellow starbursts and purple explosions—dotting her forearm.

"Gabe, _please —_"

"Please, nothing, Sally!" He roared. "Don't give me some bullshit lie about not being let off late! You were seeing him, weren't you, that waiter from Salt's!"

"It wasn't," his wife pleaded, "Percy will hear you, Gabe, please—"

That shut Gabe up. He stepped forward, chuckling and placed a hand gently on Sally elbow.

"Percy, Percy, Percy… It's all about that kid, isn't it? You've spoilt him rotten, that's what. Stupid little boy—"

He saw Sally straighten her back and stare at him with a newfound fury. For one fleeting moment, he was afraid.

"Don't you dare say anything like that about my son." Sally said softly.

Gabe slammed her elbow against the picture, sending the glass shattering towards the floor. Sally gave a cry of pain as blood began to run from the gashes in that razed her skin. She gathered the bruise arm in her good hand, trying not to cry as her son smiled at her from the faded photograph.

God, she could walk out of here right now, but she would not do it.

Gabe spat at the floor and walked towards the door.

"Going out for a drink," he said before he slammed it open, "Don't get any ideas. And for God's sake, clear that mess up."

It was only when she heard the door slam that Sally slumped against the wall and began to cry.

"Mom," she heard a small voice say and she hastily gulped back a sob as she looked at her pyjama clad nine year old son. "Mom, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, dear," she managed, getting up. "Just had a little accident is all." She smiled at him. "You should go back to sleep, darling."

Percy frowned at her elbow and looked at the shattered glass. "You're bleeding."

"Nothing a little wash-up and bandage won't fix," she assured him. "It's fine, really." To show him that all was well, she crossed over to the medicine cabinet and pulled out a strip of gauze and tended to her wound.

Percy was looking at the broken memory. "I heard Gabe shouting."

Sally froze. "You must've been dreaming, honey. Gabe's out."

"The picture's broken."

She felt a lump in a throat as she tied up the bandage.

"Mama was clumsy." She paused to ruffle her son's hair. His eyes were surrounded by charcoal smudges. "C'mon, let's get you back to bed."

-v^v-

Percy had rushed home immediately once the last bell had rung and dismissal was called, only stopping by the shops to pick up a red-wrapped packet of angel's hair pasta—his mother's favourite—and a jar of Pesto's spaghetti sauce, red and flecked brown and olive from spices.

He hurried into the apartment, thinking it empty, and tossed his schoolbag onto the floor. He dashed into the kitchen, turning on the gas. He watched in amazement as the neon blue flame, which seemed awfully fragile and barely there, start to circle up in bits until the whole ring was illuminated.

He hoped he wouldn't mess this up.

He waited, hopping from one foot to another, for the water to boil, before dumping the pasta into the steaming water. It splayed around the pan like a swimmer's locks in the ocean. Once he managed to cut up a strand with a fork, without any sort of difficulty, he pumped the air in triumph and sputtered off the fire.

He dished the whole slop out onto a plate and drenched it in generous dollops of the sauce before setting in on the table, complete with a blue paper napkin. He forgot to wash up.

He waited impatiently for another fifteen minutes before the door opened—on the clock—and his mother, her face tired and her eyes drawn, stepped in.

"Percy?" She asked in surprise; her son was hardly early back.

"I made you something." He said gleefully.

Sally looked at the water cooling in the pan, at the bottle of sauce on the counter. She saw her son impatiently standing by a plate of pasta on the table and her heart ached.

"Oh, Percy…" She smiled, putting a trembling hand to her lips.

"You're not going to cry, mom?" He asked uncertainly, "I didn't do anything wrong, did I?"

She sat down next to him, depositing her handbag on an opposite chair, and smiled.

"No, Percy. This… this is wonderful."

Her son beamed.

"Go get another plate." She said, ruffling his hair, "let's eat."

The pasta was bland in some bits and the sauce was clumped, but Sally thought, with absolute sincerity, that she hardly had had a better meal.

Blue chipped cookies:

Gabe, Sally had long decided, had a definite lack of imagination. Food colouring did exist, so why was he so shocked whenever she put out another unnaturally blue meal?

By now, he would merely sniff in disgust, as if the food was disgusting him—which was rich—and stalk off with his tongue between his teeth. Percy would snigger, making sure that his stepfather couldn't see him. It was a small triumph.

She had started small, when Percy's report cart came in through the post. She and her son had sat with the manila envelope in her fingers; she had been anxious and he had been torn between eagerly wanting to get this over with and being completely fine with letting this go forever.

"I'm going to fail both my English paper, mom." He said mournfully—before he had actually taken the paper, it had been a subject that he thought he could pass; his teacher this year had been especially patient, which in turn had made Percy had love her and endeavour to work harder. She had seen her son struggle through the subject for nights on end, his inner arm stained silver from brushing against the pencilled words.

"I'm sure you'll do fine." She assured, getting out the letter opener.

Gabe, on his way to get another beer from the fridge, snorted.

"You've got as much hope at passing as food's got at being blue, kid." He snickered as he withdrew a cylinder, popping it open. Sally glared at him and Percy's hands curled into fists.

She put a calming arm on her son's shoulder and exchanged a look at him before ripping open the envelope, the cream paper sliding cleanly from the edge of the opener.

They scanned the printed letters together before their eyes tagged on the English results.

"You did it," Sally laughed in relief, "Percy, you did it!"

Percy grabbed the paper and held it to the light, as if to check its credibility. Once he deemed it acceptable, he waved it in the air triumphantly and let out a whoop.

Gabe stood sourly by the fridge and the next day, a pile of chocolate chips stood on the kitchen table. This time, the chips were a blinding, grinning blue.


	2. Chapter 2

III: School

French Toast:

He could never quite get the hang of it; some of his classmates could get the bread perfectly evened and golden crisp on both sides, the bread lush and eggy—but never soggy—in the middle with a crackling crust. His always, _always_ turned out limp and bland, the eggs sputtering around scrambled instead of going into the Mighty White.

The bossy girl next to him was named Rebekah, and she was eyeing him beadily. "You didn't whip them properly." She said in an undertone to the new boy, "This is Miss Gaudrie's class, _whip them properly_."

Percy stared at the bowl of liquid egg in despair; it had a watery, uneven consistency. "How do I—"

"You're supposed to be managing your food yourselves!" Miss Gaudrie scowled from across the room. Rebekah gave Percy a sympathetic look and turned to her own whisk.

Looking away from Miss Gaudrie's reproachful and piercing gaze, Percy picked up his whisk again and began beating. He put too much strength into his circling wrist, however, and splats of raw egg drenched his chin and apron.

"_Dammit!"_

Rebekah inhaled sharply. Miss Gaudrie swivelled around from where she had been writing recipes on the board.

The class turned deathly silent.

"Who said that," The teacher said quietly, "Who's the one with the quick mouth?"

Percy bit the inside of his cheek. Those angry-eyes turned to bruise him. "It was you, wasn't it? What's your name—Jackson?"

He sighed. "Yes, miss."

"You insolent little monkey, that's what you are!" Miss Gaudrie shouted. A glint came into her eyes. "You'll just have to do a _recital_, then; won't you?"

Percy looked at Rebekah for help; the girl shrugged sadly—tough luck—and mouthed, "It's the worst punishment."

Recital, it turned out, was torture for his dyslexic and ADHD mind. Miss Gaudrie had snatched out some pages from some book or another by Shakespeare, or something, and Percy was to properly memorise—as if deciphering the blocks of letters wasn't already hard enough—five pages of the stuff in one day and recite them perfectly to her tomorrow. If he messed up even a little bit, he was to do it all again—with an extra page.

His dorm-mate was a helpful, titchy little creature who helped him in reading the words, though he wasn't any help in the memorising aspect of the punishment.

Needless to say, Percy only got it down pat after four recitals.

-v^v-

"Read aloud: Percy Jackson."

The boy groaned inwardly as he stood up with his book—something about the fauna of the Amazon—and embarked on the Herculean task of getting the words to make sense in his mind.

"The rivers of the… the… Amazing—"

"That's not the word." Miss Gaudrie snapped.

Percy blushed as someone snickered. "The rivers of the Amazing—" he winced.

"For heaven's _sakes_," Miss Gaudrie exclaimed. "It's the amazon—what ten year old doesn't know how to read that?"

Some soul endeavoured to be helpful. "He's dysle-sick, miss!"

"Did he tell you that?" the woman asked with a measure of disbelief.

"I am too." Percy said defensively. "I'm not bluffing!"

Miss Gaudrie scoffed; the rest of the class watched solemnly.

"You know what are?" The teacher finally said, "You're taking the easy way out—"

"If you don't believe me—"

"You're _taking the easy way out; _anything can be solved with a proper mind-set, but you're just too strung-up to try, aren't you?"

"Will you just listen to me?" He half-shouted, slapping the glossy lush pictures of the Amazonian greenery shut.

Miss Gaundrie glared at him and proceeded to flip open her teacher's copy of The Geography Set.

"Pages 68 to 73." she announced drily, settling on the Tundra section.

There was a flurry of sound as the students flapped towards the page, which was followed by a sharp intake of sympathetic breath; the pages assigned were the question and answer slots, whole mounds of nothing but intimidating text.

A brave voice at the back ventured, "But miss, there's not even a picture or what!"

A small bubble of rebellion was quickly squashed by Miss Gaudrie flashing her _recital _eyes at everyone and Percy was relegated to the corridor, with no one to help him figure out the words.

By the end of it all, his brain felt like it was bleeding.

-v^v-

French toast… again.

He could feel Miss Gaudrie's eyes on him as he cracked the eggs into a bowl, taking care not to get any of the golden goo trickling down the leaf-embossed porcelain. He managed to whip it proper this time, getting it fluffy and evened out. Rebekah gave him a discreet, approving nod.

First stage went fine, but here was the flipping—was the time right? Would it turned out charred? Miss Gaudrie was just waiting for him to mess up so he could be given yet another recital wasn't she?

Suddenly, there was a loud crackling noise of sputtering oil and a plume of smoke; a shout of _miss, miss_! Percy turned around to see one of his classmates in kitchen-danger—nothing to get too bothered about, but certainly something that required adult guidance.

Miss Gaudrie stalked imperiously to the back of the class and Rebekah suddenly appeared next to him, grabbing the spatula out of his hand and tossing the slice with expert precision.

"It's just a practice session so it's okay and this is the only time I'm going to help you, alright? Only because three recitals in two weeks is something no one should have. Look and learn, okay, I'm not going to help you next time."

Turning around to make sure that Miss Gaudrie was still occupied, she patted the sizzling toast with the base of the spatula and gave it another slick and twist, before motioning for Percy to get her plate. With great concentration, she deposited the perfect piece onto the plate and scuttled back to her station just as Miss Gaudrie pronounced the smoky scene at the back as _fine, and overly dramatic_.

With ill-disguised surprise and contempt, she eyed Percy's slice and didn't give him a recital for that day.

To show his gratitude, Percy gave his toast to Rebekah.

* * *

Mash:

Nothing said school dinner quite the way mash did, Percy thought. Squashed between two boys and facing a line of other boys, he felt out of place in this fancy school with its lacquered table—even for students—and high-backed plush chairs for the teacher's lounge.

Steaming carved bowls were exchanged over the chatter and a bowl of fluffy, white, sun-cloud mash was placed in front of Percy, accompanied by a tag-along tray of parsley sauce. He took a generous helping and passed the bowl along.

In front of him, digging in greedily, was a newcomer named Patrick. With his winning smile and prefect placed haircut, Patrick was the kind of boy you either loved or hated.

"This is the best mash I've ever seen in a school dinner," he announced, "I've been to four schools along the East Coast, and I'm telling you, you have never seen a mash quite like this." He squinted at Percy, who recognised that he was being subtly challenged. "Do you agree?"

"My other schools weren't so fancy." Percy replied, wanting to just eat without a fuss.

"Well, then—you've never had a mash like this."

"I dunno," Percy shrugged, spooning a bit of chicken into his mouth. "My mother makes pretty good mash, I guess."

Patrick raised his eyebrows along the line of boys, who understood that something interesting was going on. Eyes focused and cutlery stopped clanging so loudly.

"Your mother cooks?"

"Yeah," Percy looked confused, "I mean, why not?"

"Like, for fun?"

"She cooks for us to _eat._"

"Don't you get the help to do it for you?"

Realising the snobbery in Patrick's tone, Percy's fists clenched. A squirrelly little boy two spots down, who was either particularly brave—or more likely just drama depraved—started to murmur, "Goan, goan. He's having a go at you—_goan_."

"If you're having a go at my mother—"

"If your mother's the help, she's having a go at herself—"

Relishing the thought of a fight, the other boys began to take up the discreet chant of _goan, goan_.

"Say one more thing about my mother!"

"I would, but she's probably too daft to understand it!"

Percy spooned a heap of mash and slung it at Patrick's face. All talk went silent. He heard one of the chair's up at the teacher's lounge scrape back against the polished floors. Patrick stood up with as much dignity as one with his dinner on his face could muster, and took a leg of chicken and hit Percy square in the jaw with it.

The hall broke out in chaos.

Carrots and assorted vegetables, the least valued items, were the first to start flying. The meat went next, followed by pudding. Some bright kid started to slosh around the soups next, which was caused the real trouble. Intent on giving Patrick a one on, Percy rushed around the scene with colourful jellies in his hands, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. As he dodged a roast here and a chunk of lasagne there, Percy found that his collar was being held by a fuming mistress with blancmange down her right cheek and disappearing down her beaded collar.

"Percy Jackson," she all but spat, "I saw you throw the first go."

This wasn't his first report of bad behaviour. He was sent home the next day.

* * *

Army Lunch:

A friend of Gabe's recommended the next school. It wasn't that his stepfather gave a damn about his education, but this particular school came cheap, and was decent enough to stop Sally from worrying; both meant Gabe could ease off the stress and have more of the beer, so he encouraged it.

All of this was the reason why Percy was holding a battered tin over a dying fire, trying to get the water to boil to proper. Making army lunches was a newly introduced part of the school. Apparently, it encouraged innovation and grace-under-fire. In a straight line, his classmates squatted in front of their own fires, trying to get their water to boil with varying degrees of success.

Percy tilted his mess tin, rejoicing in the fact that the steel-coloured water was starting to bubble. He slid a fat sausage from out of the standard wrapper and plopped it into the water, his stomach already starting to grumble.

A gust of wind blew, which caused several of his classmates to curse. Percy's fire lived still. Just as he started to rip apart the packet of flavouring, his eyes caught a movement in the bushes. Percy felt his blood freeze, because movements in the bushes were never good things for him.

Percy Jackson saw monsters and believed strongly that he was either insane or had an especially vivid imagination.

A pair of yellowish eyes blinked at him from the gaps in the hedge and he scooted back in fear, upsetting his mess tin and getting scalded water all over his hand. His heart racing in his throat and yelping from the pain—his skin had started to blister—he looked back at the bushes. Nothing was there except gently fluttering leaves, yellowish in the sunlight.

His teacher, an anxious looking woman with a beehive, ran towards him to help him up. Percy Jackson was shivering badly, not just from the pain and the shock, but from the thought of his insanity creeping up on him like skeleton fingers in the dark.

He was afraid.


	3. Chapter 3

IV: Camp

Of Strawberries and Such:

If Percy had thought he enjoyed the artificial strawberry flavour of an ice lolly, or the fake burst of the fruit contained in a square of gum, he was spoiled for anything by Delphi Strawberries.

If the Ares cabin excelled at beating people up, and the Athena cabin were the best at putting people to sleep with their winding talks of subjects that no one cared about, the Demeter and Dionysus cabins could no wrong when it came to the money-drawer of Camp Half Blood.

They made an imposing group, led by Katie Gardner, which would go up to the strawberry fields in the pale dawn. With the mist brushing against their skin and the morning sun etching itself against their eyelids, they would kneel by the plants, and in their own special way, make them absolutely _bloom_.

Some of the campers would go up to the fields while all this gardening was taking place. If you ran past Katie, she would snap at you, the rest didn't care either way. Part of the joy of being at Camp was eating the fruits raw: they were huge and luminescent, heady with the scent of freshness. At first sour but then refreshingly sweet, they tasted _real._

The domestic bunch at camp, the Demeter cabin would do things with the strawberries Chiron allowed them to keep.

One particularly lazy day at Camp, Percy dropped by the Demeter cabin to see Katie holding court. Flats filled with the fruits heaved upon the wooden tables, making them groan under the weight.

"If you're here," Katie said bossily to Percy, "You might as well help."

"Do what?"

"We're making jam." She said smugly.

A camper named Miranda handed Percy a roller but Katie hurried over because Percy Jackson with any object that could potentially cause harm was less than a good idea.

"On second thought," she said hastily, "Go and help the lot with the pies. And don't eat them!"

A bunch of campers, including one of Dionysus's boys, were fiddling with the crust. Someone instructed Percy to line a pan, which he did.

"Ack," he muttered after lining—he was now being told to set the filling, and he was having trouble with that—" How are you supposed to do this?"

The Dionysus kid laughed and came over. "I'm no expert," he disclaimed, taking the pan from Percy, "but I've been around this bunch to _think _I know how to do it."

In an hour or so, most of the camp had gathered around the Demeter cabin, were the scent of pies and jam was wafting around. Katie was policing the Hermes cabin, keeping a beady eye on the Stoll brothers. Percy was given an early slice for helping and he ate it ravenously. The rest were served at dinner.

-v^v-

It was the first time after the Battle of the Labyrinth that the Demeter cabin had endeavoured to make their strawberry pies again. While their cabin had got off without any casualties this time, the loss of Dionysus's boy, Castor, had hit them especially hard.

Katie was reported to have gone off during the pie making session in tears—she had been close to the boy, both the cabins had a good rapport because of all the times they spent up in the fog clutched earth of the strawberry fields—and Pollux had not attended, of course.

The mood was subdued, still, and Percy sat alone at his table during dinner. Pale faces and smudged eyes were common. A piece of half-eaten pie sat in front of him, but he was having difficulty finishing it.

He had all but forgotten until today, that little snippet of a boy helping him to set the filling years ago. Percy had gone off from his only domestic session without bothering to find out the boy's name—he had simply forgot.

How could he have not known his name? And now he was dead, and gods, he hadn't even thought to say thank you all those years ago when Castor had helped him… He hadn't even bothered…

He put down his fork and sighed. There were too many, too many gone who would not return to those strawberry fields.

The Barbeque:

Why cook when you could have food for the asking, was the eternal question. Some things, of course, couldn't be accomplished by a simple question; they had to be worked for.

The campers had decided to have a little barbeque to signal the last week of summer; each cabin had set up their own grill with various degrees of success: the Hermes cabin was half gathered around their own stand, arguing—the other half was helping the Aphrodite kids, who had managed to persuade them. The Ares cabins were having too much fun building up a fire that was sure to char their food and the Demeter cabin and Pollux had their own embers burning very well, thank you very much.

Percy was joining the Athena kids for today. No one was allowing him near the grill; he hadn't the proclivity for barbequing: he either forgot about the meat until it was crisped, or he was too impatient and didn't cook it well. When the worst came, he could end up frying up the grill. Completely.

The newest member of the Athena cabin was a girl named Laurie Chang, and she was managing the barbeque temporarily. While Annabeth was busying herself with a small argument with Malcolm, Percy saw his chance to try his hand at grilling and went over to her.

"Hey, can I do it?" He asked, holding up sticks of raw satay.

"Yeah, sure," she replied, not knowing how terribly this would end up.

Grinning, Percy was preparing the sticks down and was settling into his small triumph when he heard Malcolm's paranoid pitch.

"Hey!" The boy rushed forward, a finger waggling, "Hey—no, no—no thank you, that's it."

"Aw, c'mon, Malcolm. I'll do it well this time."

Annabeth dropped into place, grinning. "Seaweed Brain, doing something well?"

Percy made a face at her.

By this time, the Stoll brothers had made their way to the Athena pit.

"Is that Jackson attempting to not burn stuff?"

"Hey." Percy protested, "Guys, have a little faith, please?"

"I'll bet you he'll screw it up!" Travis said gleefully.

Hearing the magic word, more of the Hermes campers drifted over. Connor realised that he would have to make the opposing action now that he had a crowd.

"Fine," he conceded, "I'll bet you a drachma."

"That's a nothing bet!" Someone shouted, to boos and jeers. A nothing bet was pathetic—it was when you knew you were going to lose, and therefore didn't have the guts (or the brains, depending on who you were talking to) to make a better bet. In the Hermes cabin, where gambling meant working, a nothing bet was the biggest disgrace.

"Make it two!"

"That's nothing as well! Do at least five!"

"Fine!" Connor shouted, "Five then! I bet five that Percy won't screw this up."

"Thanks, man." Percy said sarcastically.

"Don't screw this up."

Everyone watched as Percy set the satay down. Malcolm looked as if he was about to cry, Annabeth looked mildly interested, and the Hermes campers were making more bets amongst themselves.

Finally, it came: the flipping. Would it be blackened—but not completely charred? Would it be soft and edible, or would it be woefully raw, still. Percy tensed—waiting could mean a decent cook, but too much waiting would result in him burning the grill. Again.

Finally, he took a deep breath and flipped it. A roar of triumph came from half the Hermes cabin: Connor's side. Percy laughed in relief.

They waited a while more before he picked up the tongs to pick the pieces up as his final gesture.

"The moment you touch it," Travis warned, "The moment you touch it, you can't put it back!"

"What?" Malcolm asked, "C'mon, it's not like he's doing up your food, Stoll!"

Annabeth was amused, "Guys, it's just a barbeque." For all her wisdom, she was unaware that the outcome of those four satay sticks would affect the mood of half the Hermes cabin for the next half an hour.

Malcolm looked extremely offended.

Percy decided to take the plunge and prised the first piece off. Finally, he took up all four pieces and deposited it onto the aluminium foil. The group now gathered around the table.

"It looks well," Travis said, aware that he was grasping at straws, "but does it go down good?"

Annabeth was decided to be the impartial judge and she picked up a stick and chewed.

"It's not half bad."

Connor's half of the cabin burst into whoops as they collected their winnings from the disgruntled other half, who passed the money with surly faces.

Malcolm, realising now that he was safe for the rest of the night, marched off to the grill to start doing up the crabsticks.

Percy smiled and passed Annabeth a satay and they savoured its crisp taste together.

"Someone forgot the peanut sauce," Percy remarked as he chewed, "But it's not half bad, eh?"

Annabeth's only response was to roll her eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

V: Family

Wedding Cake:

It was the white of a fresh snow moon, festooned and beribboned with curls of silver and pink icing. Yellow sugar roses lined the edges, dotted with golden balls filled with sherbet. The usual carvings of the bride and groom were placed on the top tier, set meticulously against a garden of swirled flowers.

Percy hated his tuxedo; the only amusement he could get from it was the snap his collar against his neck, and even soon, he tired of that. His mother looked radiant in a simple ivory dress, and Paul… well you always hear stories of the groom's face at weddings. Percy was happy for both of them, particularly for his mother. She deserved to be happy, he thought.

There were some tears during the ceremony, all of the usual. It had been set off very nicely by the dappled light coming in through the stained glass windows, which made their own angelic figures against the dark pews.

Now Percy was helping Paul package the wedding cake for the guests, slicing up the cake into proper cubes and wrapping it up.

"It was a big day, huh?" Paul grinned, as he slid in a piece into the box Percy was holding out.

Percy laughed, "Yeah."

Paul bit his lip, probably wondering how to infuse the bits of fatherly wisdom that he felt obliged to bestow upon his new stepson. The man had no idea how to do this without stepping over some shoes; he wasn't sure if Percy would hold some form of resentment against him… Maybe he felt that there had always been a hope for Sally and Poseidon to reunite, and now Paul had dashed it? Maybe Percy didn't want another man in the house or wasn't ready for this, especially the disaster that had been Gabe…

"Paul?" Percy's voice brought him back to reality, "You okay?"

Paul shook his head. "Yeah… I'm fine. Percy, could I ask you a question?"

"Um… okay."

Paul opened his mouth but no structured sentence or stray thought had the mind to escape.

"Paul?" Percy said again, looking the older man in the eye. Paul nodded. "I'm glad you married my mother. She's happy—I've never seen her so happy. Just so you know, that means I'm happy. It's all fine," he laughed again, "really."

Hearing the sincerity in Percy's voice, Paul smiled.

Seafood:

He had a clear view of the sea from here: the white caps lulled with lazy pleasure against the skies that were ripening for the onslaught of the evening; the sand was soft and yellow beneath their feet, punctuated here and there by breaths of long, soft grass.

It was a wild scene, a peaceful backdrop.

Paul's bucket was filled with the catch of the day. They'd caught a good amount of fish, and Sally had brought a bucket of prawns, which glistened grey in the tin pail surrounded by ice.

The three of them gathered around the fire as Paul began to cook the prawns: Percy watched the hard grey flesh soften and turn a fresh pink. Everyone got an equal serving on a paper plate heaped with a small cap of soy sauce—a recipe that Paul swore by.

It was Sally's turn to fry up the fish, and Percy watched as the catch sputtered in the oil, the skin turning crisp, the flesh going tangy. Once that was cut up, they settled down and ate, listening to gulls squawk mournfully. Little boats bobbed in the surf, their blinking kerosene lights calling out to each other across the gloom.

Percy watched the sea as she rolled against the shore with a slumbering peace, and he was content.


End file.
